Chapter 9
NINE
Officer Cindy Moore was standing outside Ryan Crawford’s apartment building. Lieutenant Coleman’s words were on a repeating loop in her head. “A little less initiative, Officer. More communication.”
He’d given her a shot to prove herself, and she failed him out of the gate.
It was also a lesson her training officer repeatedly drummed into her.
One that hadn’t taken. It’s just her mind worked fast, and before she could silence her compulsion to move forward, she was already acting.
She would strive to find a balance between waiting and action, but she made no promises.
If it hadn’t happened yet, she doubted she was capable of it.
For one thing, she always had her justifications and rarely had regrets.
With Ryan Crawford her initiative to roll ahead had paid off.
Because of her efforts, it seemed highly probable Ryan Crawford was the hostage taker.
She just hoped that she’d find something in his apartment that would support that theory.
Not that she was a negotiation expert, but she expected whoever was running things would want to run on facts.
And she hoped to be the one to bring some to light.
Cindy’s phone rang, and Coleman’s name splashed across the screen. “Officer Moore,” she answered before the second ring.
“The warrant is cleared. You’re authorized to proceed. A copy was sent to your email.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“If you find anything that might help us out, notify me—”
“Immediately.” She recoiled at having interrupted him. “I will do, sir.”
Coleman grumbled incoherently and was gone before she could say goodbye. She’d messed up again, but she shook it off and entered the building. She headed for apartment 103, tagged as the building manager’s residence.
A burly man answered the door with more hair on his arms than was on the top of his head.
“Officer Moore. I have a search warrant for Ryan Crawford’s apartment, number three-oh-eight. I assume you have a copy of the key.” She could see a pegboard just inside the door with keys dangling from several hooks like an old-fashioned hotel.
He turned to see what she was looking at. Facing her again, he said, “You assume correctly. Let me see the warrant.”
She pulled her phone but kept her eyes on the man as she brought up the document. Once it was loaded, she held the screen toward him.
He gave it an obligatory glance and shrugged. Without a word, he turned and snatched a key. “This is it.”
She held out her palm, but he slipped his feet into slippers and stepped into the hall.
“Sir, I don’t need you to accompany me. The key alone will be fine.” She peacocked her posture. At only five foot four, she wasn’t formidable in stature, but what she lacked in physical presence she made up for in confidence.
The man looked her up and down. “Very well.” He passed over the key. “Just bring it back when you’re finished.”
She dipped her head and left. Her heart sped up as she got closer to Ryan Crawford’s apartment. What lay behind the door could help save five people’s lives. No pressure…
The key turned easily in the lock, and she stepped inside, flicking on the lights.
The place smelled funky, a horrid cacophony of odors that competed for dominance.
Garlic, onion, bacon, sweaty gym socks… Dirty plates and bowls were stacked on the counters of the compact kitchen, which was only a small L-shape tucked into a corner.
The living room, also visible from the door, showed pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers.
Cindy snapped on a pair of gloves and moved deeper into the apartment. Her target was Ryan’s bedroom and home office. He didn’t have the latter, though, and she retraced her steps back to the living room after a quick search of the bedroom didn’t give up any secrets.
The coffee table had storage beneath flip-back lids. She set the garbage from its surface onto the carpet and opened the top to access the storage within it.
Facing up was last week’s newspaper, and the headline Business Mogul Timothy Hanson Dead at 73.
Cindy reached in and pulled it out. The article included mention that the Hanson fortune would pass to Timothy’s sole heir. There was a picture of the late Timothy with his son, Edward Hanson. Sprawled over Edward’s face, in thick red marker, was an X.
“That can’t be good.” She spoke to the empty apartment and called Lieutenant Coleman.